


Divide and Conquer

by iseoks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Children, Divorce, Draco is very sassy, F/F, F/M, HP: EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, Healer Pansy Parkinson, Hermione discovers she's not straight, Lavender Brown survives, M/M, Marriage, Platonic Relationships, Pregnancy, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, also, ok i think that's everything, smut scenes scattered throughout between the main pairings listed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iseoks/pseuds/iseoks
Summary: Everything seems to be falling perfectly into place: Draco and Harry have settled down with their beautiful baby daughter, as have Ron and Hermione with their twins - and for the first time in a while, life is sweet and simple.However, the latter couple discovers that their love for each other just isn't what they thought it was, and are forced to try to find themselves apart from one another, with the counsel of their closest friends, familiar faces, and strangely ... each other.Meanwhile, the Potter family faces conflicts of their own. Perhaps, then, life hasn't come to be as simple as Harry had hoped.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading! 
> 
> Just a few things you should know before jumping into this story. I hadn't wanted to slow the plot by explaining this, so if you're interested to know the headcanon by which Harry and Draco (and all other same-sex couples in the wizarding world) are able to have kids that are biologically theirs, refer to [this tumblr post!!](http://malfoid.tumblr.com/post/167896262690/gay-culture-in-the-united-kingdom-wizarding) (It's not M!Preg, if that was your concern). 
> 
> Also, just to avoid confusion: Harry and Draco, at this point in the story, have one daughter named Lucille Siriusae Potter, though they call her "Lucy". Ron and Hermione have twins, a boy and a girl, called Apollo Arthur Granger-Weasley ("Polly") and Artemis Ophelia Granger-Weasley ("Missy"). 
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you'll enjoy this piece!

A sigh of a frustrated variety billows like smoke from Harry’s nostrils. He’s sat on the floor of the nursery, body stretched unceremoniously while the daintily painted blocks of wood lie tauntingly unassembled inside the angle created by his legs. Three hours. He’d been trying to put this damned crib together for three hours and this has to be the twentieth time he’s restarted.

“So, I take it you want Lucy to sleep on a pile of sticks this evening?”

As though charmed instead of mocked by these words, Harry’s head whips around so quickly, his mess of dark curls defy logic and become even messier, with fringe falling into his narrowed eyes.

“Very funny. I don’t see you offering any help.”

Only Draco Malfoy could manage a laugh that sounds both dry and sincere. He approaches the mess of their daughter’s room (and his mess of a husband) with said child suspended at his hip, her green eyes twinkling with wonder as to why the nursery in which she’s spent most of her brief life looks like a tornado has ripped through it.

“I’m offering moral support,” claims the blonde, cradling the infant in his arms so he can sit cross-legged across the floor from Harry. Draco peeks at the crib parts and discarded manual over his pointed nose, rolling his eyes at how glossy the front cover of the booklet is - indicating that Harry had not left a single fingerprint to show he’d so much as picked up the pamphlet, let alone read it. “And, I’m keeping an eye on our daughter. As well-behaved as she tends to be, she’s still half-Potter. I’d rather not leave her be for a minute only to find she’s swallowed something she isn’t supposed to, or making some other sort of mischief.”

Harry’s brows raise comically, breath pushing out in an ‘offended’ guffaw as he brushes his wide palm over the white-blonde strands swirling atop Lucy’s little head. The infant coos appreciatively. “Well, she hardly looks like me at all. It’s only fair she’d have at least some of my personality traits, right?”

“Genetics aren’t rationed out, Potter,” says Draco informatively, as though he were a professor teaching the art of sarcasm in conversation, “though I do hope to Merlin she didn’t inherit your bullheadedness. You haven't even looked at the instructions, have you? That’s why you’re doing such a miserable job.”

“Don’t need them,” claims Harry, “it’s just a matter of figuring out what goes where. Why would I waste my time reading some stupid book? Ten pages of common sense.”

Icy hues are devoid of any trace of amusement as they flicker between Harry’s determined expression and the disaster of what had previously been such a clean, endearing little nursery.

The only reason they’d invested in a new crib is result of Lucy just about breaking her old one off its posters - in a fit of excitement, a burst of magical energy surged from her little body and not only left her parents in shock, but made history of her bedtime abode. Now, they’d purchased one virtually magic-proof from a maternity shop (in Diagon Alley, of all places) that Molly Weasley had recommended.

Draco; especially after roughly twelve years of knowing Harry, along with spending almost three of those years married to him, would be a liar to claim that he hadn’t expected his husband to exhibit this kind of behavior. Despite having just pointed out the blonde mage’s idleness, Harry had insisted on doing the project himself and, of course, on ‘skill’ and not by the direction of the book that came with the damned product. They’ve left Hogwarts years ago now, and yet the Boy Who Lived still manages to remind his partner how the Sorting Hat made the right choice, in the end.

“Well, Mr. Home Architect, why don’t you put your endless supply of ‘common sense’ on hold for a few hours? You’ve been in here all morning and the last thing I need is my husband going prematurely senile from looking at cream-coloured walls for hours on end,” this makes Harry laugh, and Draco grins - especially as the bubbly child in his arms starts to laugh, too. “I made tea. Weasley and Hermione are coming for a visit soon, as well.”

The dark-haired wizard seems to perk up with this revelation. “Are they? Brilliant! Will they be bringing the twins?”

“Afraid not,” Draco answers sorrily, getting to his feet as best he can, holding Lucy, “they’ve left them with Mrs. Weasley. They’ve also said they have something serious to talk with us about, so I’m going to try to get Lucy down for a nap in the spare crib before they arrive.”

“Ah, I see,” Harry muses, starting to clean up. His thoughts were racing the instant Draco had alluded to ‘something serious’ - between the trio, as that could mean anything from the most trivial of disputes to the most dire call to action. Malfoy’s calmness seems to set a vibe, though - which speaks volumes, Harry has learned. If he were as in the dark as Harry, surely he'd be just as concerned; thus, the Healer must know something the Auror doesn’t. “Did they say exactly when they're coming?” he projects down the hall, as Draco loses proximity in favor of his parents’ room, where the spare crib resides.

“No, just soon.” A pause. “So basically, probably an hour, Weasley time.”

Chuckling, Harry sets aside the cluster of wood for later on. The manual slips from its abode between two posters and green eyes focus on it for a moment, before shoving it away with his bare foot.

* * *

Ron sits idly in front of the furnace a few minutes longer than he’d intended - the Floo is, at this point, set up to take him to Malfoy Manor to meet with his dearest friends and discuss something he’d never imagined having to. It isn't like the key players don't already know - his parents, siblings, and a handful of others who’d managed to get the worst of a surge of emotion - but two important figures hadn't yet been actively involved in the process.

The twins are more than a year old, now, and while surely they're too young to do so much as attempt to hold a conversation on the matter, Ron cannot help but feel like dirt leaving them out. Of course, everything he and Hermione have done is for them - including this - but he knows the likelihood of them understanding that as they grow up is minimal. The fact that he and Hermione haven't even managed to break the news to Harry yet, a grown adult, speaks volumes of the toll this takes on the both of them.

But it must be done. Only greater harm will come if it isn't.

A weighted breath seems to crush his lungs as he rises to his full height, and ducks under the mantel to enunciate the moniker beared by his destination.

* * *

Draco seats himself beside his husband on one of the velvety couches; one that he had picked out himself upon having the manor redone and refurnished. Of course, they still aren't through with the massive house, but all of the main and most frequently used rooms have been accounted for, and the home looks so much brighter than it did under previous, more sinister occupation.

Harry has sunken into the sofa almost completely. His exhaustion from battling with the crib finally surfaces as he drains his second cup of lemon tea, exhaling an appreciative and satisfied breath. Draco and his mother always seem to make the best tea - he hadn't even particularly cared for lemon flavored anything before trying his partner’s brew.

“You’re going to drink all of it,” quips an amused Malfoy from behind his own mug, while gesturing toward the two empty ceramics waiting on the table for Ron and Hermione. “Don’t be rude, we have guests coming.”

“Can’t you just make more?” Harry asks, aiming for another helping, “or have your mum make it?”

“Just so you can be greedy? That’s rich, Potter.”

Harry, somewhat begrudgingly, leans forward to set his empty mug on a coaster, prior to scooting closer to Draco and leaning all over him. “I’d offer to make it myself but it wouldn't be as good as yours or hers, now would it?”

“It wouldn't,” the smug answer is nearly giggled out. “Stop it, your stubble is tickling my neck-”

“You like it,” claims Harry, and Draco only wheezes.

After all this time, this man still manages to make him weak. Either way, Draco can’t decide whether he feels saved or annoyed when Hermione Floos in.

“Oh- am I interrupting something?” asks she, face warming just a little at the apples of her cheeks as Harry starts to laugh and Draco smacks his chest.

“No, Hermione. Potter was just being a nuisance, as per usual.”

Long lashes bat before painted lips curve into a smile, and Hermione nods. Harry can’t help but notice, though; something appears distantly sad - perhaps even a little envious? - about her smile, and the way her eyes lid partially.

“I see,” she comments, removing her coat, “sorry I was running a little late. Polly got a little touchy and wouldn't let me go.” Her explanation comes through a motherly laugh, which is followed almost instantly by an exhausted sigh as she settles on the sofa across from the couple.

“He was always more sensitive than his sister, wasn't he?” notes Harry, sitting up a little more, “Not surprised. But … speaking of the twins, where’s their dad?”

Draco swallows more tea than he’d meant to with the question, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice the awkward gulp. Hermione does, though, and she exchanges glances with Draco as discreetly as possible before clearing her throat. “He’s coming.”

Harry's brow lowers curiously, but before he can make another comment, Draco is pouring Hermione a much-needed mug of tea. It’s funny, how close the two of them have come to be individually - over the past few years, Draco had somewhat been unconsciously admitted to their fraternity as the war steadily became more and more distant from their everyday lives. Of course, Ron and Harry chose not to finish their schooling at Hogwarts and went right into work, whereas Draco and Hermione opted for an eighth year to give their education some closure. That was where the two of them formed an unlikely bond, and as Draco and Harry started dating, it had never been easier to fall for the Malfoy charm when it stood for something true; something Draco had learned on his own instead of blindly copying his father.

Harry is quite thankful the tensions have eased over time, and they can enjoy relatively calm, simple lives.

Just as Draco and Hermione start up conversation about the Healer’s latest horror story from the St. Mungo’s emergency department, the Floo tints the room a shade of lime, and standing among the dying embers is Ron.

“Hey!” Harry greets his partner so enthusiastically, it startles him out of his thoughts. Ron smiles, though, always happy to see his best mate.

“Hey,” he says less, but still considerably cheerfully, stepping into the room once the Floo had cleared, “sorry I’m late, lost track of time.”

Hermione unabashedly studies Ron, a tiny frown tugging her lips downward. Guilt pangs in her chest, though they've been over this - there's no room nor reason for guilt. But she can't help herself. She knows the stress he's under, as she's under it, too - and inflicting that on anyone, let alone someone she loves so dearly, refuses to sit comfortably on her conscience.

“The twins get to Mum’s okay?”

His question pops her bubble of brooding and she perks up, nodding immediately. “Yes, they’re fine. Apollo started up with a tantrum but I think he was just tired. Molly’ll probably get the both of them down for a nap, honestly - Missy was fussy, too.”

“Ah, well. Polly’s a Mummy’s Boy and Missy just likes to be loud,” states Ron definitively, and Harry starts up laughing, as does Hermione.

“Well, they're certainly your children, aren't they?” snickers Draco, only making the others laugh more.

“Are you talking me about being a Mummy’s Boy, Malfoy?” Ron snorts, throwing his jacket onto the back of the couch as he sits beside Hermione, “Really?”

“Mind you, I’ve never claimed that I wasn't,” retorts the blonde, tentatively sipping the contents of his mug afterward.

“Wait a moment,” starts Harry, mystified, “if ‘Mione took the twins to Molly’s by herself, what kept you, Ron?”

Hermione suddenly looks as though she's seen a ghost, and Draco’s grip tightens on his mug, but Ron doesn't flinch.

He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “A lot on my mind, lately.”

Concern floods Harry’s face, and immediately he moves closer to the edge of the couch, asking, “What’s the matter? Is everything alright?”

Silence ensues, and holds for about thirty brutal seconds before Hermione speaks up. “Actually, Harry, this ties in well with what we wanted to talk to you about. Ron and I … have been under quite a bit of stress lately, because …”

“We’re getting a divorce.”

Hammering the nail in the coffin, Ron spoke those four horrific words as fluently as he swears. He feels an odd sense of relief concocted with dread: glad that it's finally been said, but far less than glad to shepherd the loathsome mood the topic introduces. Blue eyes rise to look at Harry’s face, and immediately, he regrets it.

His fellow Auror looks as though he’d been told his parents were getting divorced, or like Christmas had been canceled. His green eyes seem drained of the usual electricity about them, and his lips are left slightly agape with utter confusion.

Draco scoots closer to the cushion’s edge, and places a hand on his husband’s shoulder blade, rubbing comfortingly.

“Wh- … Why?”

“Oh, Harry, come on,” Ron exhales irritably, and Hermione looks at him pleadingly, silently begging him not to upbraid Harry for being hurt, out of his own hurt. The redhead shakes his head, as though attempting to get his thoughts in order, and licks his lips. “It's for the best. We’ve been talking about it for a while, now, actually. The process has already started and will be finalized in a few months.”

“How long is a while? And why am I just now hearing about it?” Harry’s lips purse, and he shakes his head. “What about the twins?”

“Harry …” Hermione looks as though she may burst into tears at any second, but manages to ground herself enough to speak coherently, “About a month ago, now … that’s when we got everything sorted out with the court, and we’re just waiting for a decree and then an absolute. But listen, Harry, this isn't going to be what you may be thinking it is. Ron and I still have every intention of maintaining a relationship like we always have. Marriage just … it’s not working for us, anymore. We’re going to raise the twins, still, of course - we’ll work something out with living arrangements, until they're old enough to go to Hogwarts. We’ll work out things for the summer, too. It’s going to be okay. This isn't malicious and there's no animosity about it. It’s something we’ve agreed on. We both want it. We got married too soon and too young … we overestimated our feelings. Well … misinterpreted them, maybe.”

Harry’s sigh catches in his throat, and he looks over his shoulder at Draco, whose eyes are full of concern, but support.

“I don’t get it.” Harry says, finally, “What do you mean, too soon? Too young? Draco and I were married not too long after you were, and-”

“That’s different, Harry,” explains Hermione, “Because … you and Draco are in love. Ron and I are not. At least … not in a way that's enough to support a marriage. I love Ron very, very much - and he loves me the same, I never doubted it - but not in the way that spouses love one another. Do you understand?”

Ron’s lips tug to the side of his face, and he puts a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, rubbing gently. Harry watches, looks both of them in the eye, and sighs so deeply, his shoulders drop.

“Maybe. Not yet … but as long as you two will still love each other - as long as nothing's going to happen to you, to us, then I’ll survive. Of course, it isn't about me … but - well, you still haven't answered me. Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“Honestly, mate, we weren't sure how you'd take it. We needed time to figure ourselves out, figure out how we were going to tell you, since you're so important to our lives, and our relationship … I’m actually impressed Malfoy managed to stay quiet about it,” Ron says, laughing softly.

Slowly, Harry turns his head to face Draco, who’s already staring at him with knowing eyes.

“Yes, Harry,” Draco says softly, squeezing his partner’s arm, “I knew. They begged me not to tell you, but Hermione needed to vent one day, and there I was.”

“We’ll keep you posted from now on, mate,” promises Ron, reaching across the coffee table to take Harry’s hand. Responsively, bright green eyes dart up toward him - the emeralds glistening with conflict.

Hermione looks away, taking imagined interest in the dying embers glowing in the fireplace. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she murmurs, garnering the eyes of all three men in the room.

“‘Mione, there's nothing you should be apologizing about,” assures Harry, though he’s looking at Ron as he speaks. After the fact, however, his gaze does fall upon a miserable-looking Hermione, curled up in the corner of the sofa. “You said it yourself - this is what you want. And I want the both of you to be happy. There’s no reason to make this any more difficult than it already is, right?”

Nodding, Ron agrees. “Right.”

Seeming to have found some comfort in the words, Hermione offers a tiny smile and sits up, brushing her wild curls behind her ears. “Yes, that's right.”

Watching the exchange, Draco licks his lips and straightens his legs, standing to head for the kitchen. “Mum and I will make more tea. You two, feel free to stay as long as you like.”

* * *

 

“You handled that a lot better than they were expecting, I think,” comments Draco, once Ron and Hermione have departed and the sitting room must be cleared of the few used dishes among them. The pair had stayed for longer than perhaps they intended; the quartet even bringing out shortbread biscuits to indulge in while trading stories and memories, and discussing plans and ideas for the future. Ron had even offered to help Harry assemble Lucy’s crib, to Draco’s annoyance that his husband would accept his best mate’s help, but not his own. Of course, with the Granger-Weasley twins to look after, Ron had more experience piecing together the “magic-proof” bed, and they'd finished the task in half the time Harry had earlier spent wrestling with the painted planks.

Draco and Hermione even found enough time to accessorize Lucy’s new crib, and to get the room back in order just before bedtime.

“How did you respond? When they initially told you?” Harry questions, leaning against the wall between the stove and the massive array of cabinets.

Exhaling, the heir shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “To be honest, Harry, I wasn't that surprised. You may not have noticed since they're your best mates, and you were particularly attached to the idea of them being together, but … I could tell they were growing apart. They were arguing a lot, too - over really petty stuff, because they were so stressed with trying to make things work when they just … wouldn't.”

The bespectacled of the two men stares into the darkening horizon from the window, right in his line of vision, and exhales slowly. “I did notice that. I thought they were going to get through it, though.”

“They are,” says Draco, toweling the last of the mugs dry, “just not in the way we may have wanted.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*mandatory plug of my tumblr lol*](https://malfoid.tumblr.com)  
>     
> i know this first chapter moved a little slow, and i apologize, but i promise once the story gets going it'll get better!!
> 
> please review. ♡


	2. Chapter 2

The faint ticking of a worn leather wristwatch sets a metronome for its wearer’s racing thoughts. Honestly, he hadn’t meant to overstay his visit at Draco and Harry’s - but it felt so nice to be comfortable for a while; to not be stressed, even if for a brief time, is a rarity that the last few months have presented with little more than a dreamlike unattainability. It’s late by the time Ron reaches the Burrow - nearing nine in the evening, to be exact - and he can already hear his mother’s shrewish tone chastising him for, once again, losing track of time.

Call it saccharine, but he’s already worked up quite a way of missing the twins. They really had been like rays of sunshine in the darkest of hours - their sweet oblivion and radiant innocence had given Ron and Hermione all the solace they require to be able to make it through this process without losing sight of what’s most important; that being, the pair of infants themselves, and the bond that brought about their existence.

Apollo lives up to the implications of the name Hermione had chosen for him: bright, energetic, warm and quite musical, had Ron ever seen a child so melodious at such a young age. The boy would buzz about and hum along incoherently to whatever song fills the air, even if he seems to be the only one who can hear it. And, given his tendency to mimic in breathy, infantile moans whatever conversation happens around him, Hermione had nicknamed him “Polly” after the common moniker for parrots. It stuck, and now everyone calls him that.

His sister, Artemis, usually exhibits calmer, less ecstatic behaviour. She has an inclination for feminine things - often getting into what little stash of makeup to Hermione’s name, or rummaging around Molly’s jewels when left unattended - after which, her grandmother deemed her “Missy”, but her passions are more reserved and delicate than her beaming brother’s. Of course, it’s difficult to tell at so early an age; according to his mother, Fred and George had completely switched personalities once they’d reached a certain point in growth (which Ron can’t seem to remember their personalities ever being so different in the first place, aside from small, subtle details only those very close to them would pick up on) - and the prospect of this shift applying to Polly and Missy at some point in the future seems otherworldly.

Similarly to their uncles before them, the twins already exhibit a tendency to get into trouble, in a concerningly endearing way. Maybe then, it’s just a Weasley thing - and doubled, the effects are unignorable.

Reaching the doorstep to his childhood home, Ron’s fingers prod around his neckline until the thin rope holding his key surfaces. Now that he and his siblings had moved away, the house almost seems to tilt sadly - as though it misses something important. Glancing subconsciously to his far left, he doesn’t know why he’d even chanced to see if that torn-up old car was still there. His father had retired ages ago, to the order of his many children, who concerned over his deteriorating health. In Molly’s care, however, Arthur really couldn’t be better.

“Ronald Weasley!”

The matriarch’s furious whisper cuts through his reminiscent thoughts, and cornflower blue eyes double in size as the petite, but mighty woman steers herself toward where the front door had been opened. Pulling her son inside by his earlobe, fiercely ignoring his whines of protest, she guides him toward the couch and commands him to sit. Feeling a lecture coming on, the youngest Weasley brother sinks into his spot and exhales in anticipation.

“You should have been here three hours ago to come take my grandchildren home! If I’d have known I’d be putting them to bed, I would have prepared for such - you know it isn’t a problem, but you can’t just leave them here without giving me word or warning!”

Noticing how her voice never passes a certain octave, despite the rage it contains being near tangible, Ron figures the twins are asleep. He chances to see if she’s done before attempting to explain himself - he knows better than to try to interrupt Molly Weasley, especially when she’s angry. When she doesn’t speak anymore, and instead places her hands on her wide hips, glaring with expectancy for him to speak, Ron takes his cue and sits up straight.

“Mum, I’m sorry - it was irresponsible, I know,” he concedes, watching her eyes to see if the fury dies down, “but ‘Mione and I honestly hadn’t expected to be gone that long. With the divorce and trying to figure everything out, we hadn’t really gotten the chance to just sit down and spend time with Harry, you know? It was nice. It was nice to not just worry for a while … before we knew it, it was past eight.” He sighs, and Molly’s eyes soften, and paired with the slight downturn of her lips, its clear that her anger has subsided.

Sighing, the mother moves to sit beside her son and caresses his shoulder. “So, you had a nice time with the Potters, I presume?”

“Oh, yes,” answers Ron, smiling brightly, “I helped Harry put together Lucy’s new crib, and ‘Mione and Draco decorated it real pretty. You should see it, Mum. Well - actually you can, we took lots of pictures. Draco has them, though,” wiping the perspiration of his hands along his clothed thighs, he looks curiously around the room. “Ah, where are Polly and Missy?”

“Upstairs, with your father,” she answers, standing, “Come, I’ll help you pack up and you can take them home. And if you ever need a break again … or you and Hermione can’t figure something out, we’re always here to help.”

“I know, Mum,” promises Ron, gratefulness flecked in the depths of blue, “I know.”  


* * *

 

Most days - aside from when either of their schedules wouldn’t allow for it - Hermione and Draco would share a lunch in one of the few eateries between the Ministry and St. Mungo’s. About two and a half months after the intervention at Malfoy Manor, they meet in a French Café and Hermione receives the biggest cup of coffee she’s ever seen, with a heart drawn in the creme. Looking up, she sees Gabrielle Delacour smiling at her from another table, before turning her attention to the indecisive customer still mulling over the contents of the intricately designed menu.

“She didn’t have to do this,” Hermione murmurs, and Draco’s brows raise in inquisition before his friend gestures to the blonde woman across the room.

“Oh, did she give that to you as a compliment?” asks Draco, though the answer is pretty much settled - though fortified by Hermione’s nod. “Well, it is our first time in here since she and her sister opened this place. I had no idea they were into cooking, honestly.”

“Me either,” admits the brunette, shrugging off her jacket, and charming it to hang on the back of her chair, “which speaks a lot, considering we were in-laws. Fleur and I, at least.”

Laughing gently, Draco shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just like the cafés in France, really. It makes me want to go back.”

“Take me with you, next time.”

Stabbing mindlessly into his quiche with his fork, Draco pulls a sour face. “You sound just like Harry.”

This time, Hermione laughs - but slightly louder than Draco had. “You think you’d speak more fondly of your husband.”

“That was fond,” claims Draco, and Hermione knows their dynamic enough to believe him well, “besides, we went there for our honeymoon, and he caught a fever for the place. Not that I blame him, of course.”

Just as Hermione forms a response, she hears a call of her name from a direction she hadn’t quite pinned yet. Her head of wild curls springs around her as she turns to either side, before the same voice is right behind her.

“Hey, ‘Mione. Fancy seeing you here.”

Lifting her head (and eyes, to the point they nearly roll back in her skull), Hermione finds the grinning face of Bill Weasley, to which she immediately whips around and encompasses him in a tight hug.

“Bill! I didn’t know you’d be here,” she starts, voice muffled by his chest before she pulls away, quickly, “are you assisting Fleur?”

“No, she’s got everything under control back there. I don’t even want to touch anything - I have no idea what goes on in that brilliant mind of hers. Cooking isn’t necessarily my thing - I make a mean beans an’ toast, though.”

Draco snorts behind his mug, to which Bill’s crooked grin widens.

“Victoire will probably take a liking to this place. She’s a lot like her mother, already. Speaking of which, when can she come visit her little cousins again? I know - things’ve been kind of crazy for you and Ron, huh?”

Hermione sighs, rolling up her sleeves. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean Victoire can’t come for a visit anytime. All their stuff’s still between the Burrow and Ron’s place. You’ll probably better catch us at the former, though … it’s been like a middle ground, while we figure things out.”

Bill nods comprehensively, eyes filling with sympathy he knows better than to voice. Still, he cups Hermione’s cheek and murmurs, “You know, if you ever need anything, you can come to Fleur and I, alright? You’re still like a little sister to me, ‘Mione. And I’m more than certain the rest of the family sees you the same.”

Words cluster under a lump in Hermione’s throat, and her eyes threaten to glaze over with a layer of unshed tears, but she holds herself together and nods. “Thank you, Bill,” she says quietly, “there was never a doubt in my mind about it.”

A soft smile etches along Bill’s strong jaw, the scars upon his face bending to the will of his expression before his eyes fall unto Draco. “Ah, Malfoy!” He greets, and Draco tries his best to look as though he hadn’t been eavesdropping this entire time, “How’s the bloke and kids?”

“Just one kid,” Draco corrects with an amused smile, swirling the straw around his carbonated water, “and they’re just fine.”

“Mum told me about the whole crib incident,” tells Bill, pulling Hermione’s chair out for her to sit back down.

Rolling his eyes, Draco rests his elbows upon the table’s surface, not too concerned with table etiquette in relation to such a light-hearted gathering, “Well, she certainly didn’t get that from me.”

Giggling, Hermione pushes her fork through her salad. She’s only half listening - her mind still swimming with Bill’s earlier display of such deep kindness. Of course, it hadn’t surprised her very much at all - all of the Weasleys had been nothing but kind to her, and she hadn’t expected that to change in the slightest. But it had taken her off guard in such a way that it never hurts to be reminded of things she already believes.

The eldest Weasley seems equipped to respond, but his watch sounds off a slew of dull _beeps_ and immediately, he gazes at its face. “Ah, looks like I have to run back to Gringott’s. Fleur will have my head if I don’t stop in to see her for a moment, though,” smiling warmly at the two, he straightens his jacket, “Tell Harry I said hello. We should get all the kids together for a little playdate or something, sometime.”

“Oh, Bill, that’s a lovely idea,” says Hermione, looking at Draco for confirmation, and pleased to see him nod.

“Lucy’s very social - plus, she and Victoire seemed to get along quite well, didn’t they?”

Brushing auburn tresses behind his ear, Bill’s hand then slips into his pocket as he nods in accordance, “Trust me, Victoire’s crazy about her. I wouldn’t be surprised if they grew up to be best friends.”

After a moment’s surprise, a genuine smile establishes itself upon Draco’s lustrous face, with words spoken warmer than expected of such a sardonic man. “Neither would I.”

“Bill?” Fleur’s soft voice manages to travel somehow, and the addressed turns his head to see his wife almost immediately. “Ah, I can’t stay a moment longer. I’ll see you two soon, hopefully. Stop by the cottage anytime you like, we’d love to have either of you.”

The pair of friends send him off with a wave, before Hermione turns to face her lunch mate properly, murmuring in an appreciative tone, “Bill is so kind. I really wish I got to see him more often.”

“Well, he said you could visit whenever,” hums Draco, “Though, we’re all busy people. With jobs and families and all. It seems like there’s hardly any time for anything anymore. Harry and I have had to put off the last of the renovations more than once because of how demanding life gets to be, with Lucy. Not that I regret having her earlier than initially planned, but it was a reckless move, considering we had a thousand different things going on at the time.”

Comprehensively, Hermione nods. “Mrs. Weasley always says love doesn’t wait, doesn’t she?”

The tiniest smile bows pale lips, in such a way that Hermione can tell Draco hadn’t wanted her to notice. It warms her heart, to see how much he loves Harry, and their beautiful daughter.

“Speaking of renovating and houses and such,” Draco’s brow cocks, telling of the fact he’s just considered something, “Where on earth are you staying right now? You’ve said you aren’t living with Ron any longer, but I don’t recall being invited to a housewarming party, either.”

With a roll of her eyes at that last remark, Hermione drops a cube of sugar into her massive mug of coffee - which she warms a bit with a simple heating charm, “I’m still staying with Ginny and Luna, I thought I told you? They’ve got plenty of room, but I really feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. Fortunately, I’ve fallen in love with this little apartment in the wizarding community outside Westminster - you know, it’s close to work, and all,” seeing Draco nod along, she continues, “It’s absolutely lovely. It’s even got a nice little garden to it.”

“But?” Prompts Draco, knowing there’s a hindrance here.

“ _But_ …” Hermione bites her lip, “It’s too large for just me. And very expensive at that. I could afford it if I wanted to, but I’ve got no reason for a place that big if it’s just going to be me, and the twins from time to time. Even with the twins, that leaves two extra bedrooms … I’d hate to be selfish and take the space away from someone that needs it more than me, but at the same time, it’s such a lovely home, and it’s perfect.”

Sucking his teeth for a moment, Draco rests his chin in his hand. “Why don’t you just send out applications for a roommate or two?”

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione seems to shudder at the idea, “I mean … in _theory_ , that fixes the issue, but I’m really not comfortable boarding up with someone I don’t know that well. Especially with my kids … I don’t know.”

“Isn’t that what you did at Hogwarts?” Draco asks, and Hermione’s cheeks warm.

“Yes, but that was different. We were all young and students and - well, I didn’t have a livelihood and children to concern over, back then.”

Mulling over her options, nearly as much as Hermione herself, Draco leans back in his chair, shrugging. “It could work out. I get your reservations, really, I do - honestly, if I was in your place, I’d probably be acting the same way. But it seems like a pretty logical solution to your issue, doesn’t it? You can always turn down applicants that rub you the wrong way. Just think about it, Hermione - but not for too long. If that place of yours is really as perfect as you’re making it sound, it’ll go fast.”

 

* * *

 

Harry reclines in his chair, eyeing the files suspended in the air by a levitation spell, following the scripted lines with his wand very carefully. A case had come in about a widow and her three children, searching for justice regarding the alleged murder of the family’s patriarch - the case having gone through several Aurors before reaching Harry’s and Ron’s desks. Apparently, no single trace had been left of the man, but the mother had been experiencing brutally graphic nightmares about his murder - which she interprets more as visions cast unto her as torture by the perpetrator.

The most worrying fact of all, as Harry has just discovered, is that the father was Muggle-born.

Ron enters the room noisily, though he’s cautious not to break Harry’s focus, if he can help it. When the dark-haired Auror chances to look at him, the redhead approaches less carefully, dropping a fat stack of paperwork atop the cherrywood desk

“What’s all this?” wonders Harry, sitting up properly and letting the files he had been reviewing slip back into their designated folder.

“Medical records, copied straight from St. Mungo’s,” answers Ron, shifting his weight to one side, “Parkinson sent them over, saying they’d help. She got permission from Draco, of course.”

“Mm,” trills Harry, running his hand over the smooth front of the manila folder, “have you looked at them yet?”

“No, I figured I’d comb through them with you - that way if there was anything significant in them, they’d go past two sets of eyes around the same time. All I know is apparently Watergate,” the victim, “checked in to Mungo’s three days before all this went down. Parkinson said she remembered treating him, that he had all kinds of gashes and open sores all over his body.” Ron’s nose scrunches, the injuries coming to his mind’s eye in vivid detail, despite the fact that there are almost certainly images included in the records. “I’m thinking if that holds up, whoever offed him came back for a round two, to finish the job.”

“I thought that, too, just now,” agrees Harry, hands diving beneath his glasses to scrub at his eyes, “Even then, we still don’t have a suspect or a motive. Not a definitive one, anyways - though I did find that Watergate was Muggle-born ...”

“You’re not thinking -” Ron pauses, eyeing Harry almost warily, “Death Eaters, are you?”

Harry gives a sigh wrought with tension, shrugging uncertainly. “If not them, then something like them. Voldemort’s history, but the prejudices still exist. We haven’t seen a hate crime this bad in a while, they’ve got to be trying to make a statement. Hopefully these files Pansy sent over can help us toward the answer.”

Nodding solemnly, Ron glances toward the clock. “Oh, grief - look at the time. I’ve got somewhere to be, Harry, I’m gonna clock out for tonight. Think we could look at those records first thing tomorrow?”

Harry himself eyes the hour, and looking toward Ron, he nods. “I’m gonna owl Draco, see if he’s done at Mungo’s, yet. You go on,” pausing, curiosity gets the best of him, “where, exactly? If it’s alright I ask - of course.”

Laughing somewhat shakily, Ron’s palms graze his thighs in attempt to expel some of the sweat gathered there. “I, uh - I wanted to pick up something for Missy and Polly in town, just to keep them in high spirits. I think they’ve caught on to the fact that ‘Mione and I aren’t living together anymore, smart as they are.”  

Nodding, Harry scripts a quick note and folds it, slipping it into the pocket of a fresh envelope, “Well, don’t they have a birthday coming up next month? Spoiling them, are you?” He chuckles, as Hermia, his owl, swoops in.

“Something like that,” Ron admits, smiling lopsidedly.

“Well alright, then,” Harry slides the avian the note, and watches as she carries it away, “tell them Uncle Harry said hello.”

Ron, already having tucked his arms into his jacket, grins impossibly wider. “Will do.”

 

* * *

 

Twilight paints the August sky warm shades of orange and magenta as Ron apparates to the bustling heart of Diagon Alley. The uppermost layer of the heavens is already dark blue, meaning that soon, all of the other colors will be drained from the celestial palette and nothing but blacks and deep blues will lay out an even bed for the stars.

He doesn’t have a lot of time, but he knows the twins well enough to decipher what will put a smile on their faces. They’re young enough to appreciate anything their father seems to give them, still, but considering that they’ll be two come the end of September, their personalities have set them apart from one another, and their infantile identities.

The patriarch knows exactly where to find a suitable gift for Polly, which comes in the form of an antique store he and Hermione had stopped in nearly half a year ago. He hopes on Merlin’s beard that it’s still there - that no one had taken it home when Ron had been thinking about this particular item since he’d saw it in the window. Certainly, he should have just purchased it then and there, but the desire hadn’t been strong enough at the time, despite how its grown, especially as he worriedly scans as many shelves as his eyes can handle. Which, consdering how much of today he’d spent squinting at tiny print on parchment, isn’t very much.

The shop clerk is a young woman, with dark hair styled in a tight plait. Looking at her, Ron figures she must be an apprentice of some sort. They make awkward eye contact, the woman biting her lip as she clears her throat delicately.

“Do you need help, sir?”

“No,” lies Ron, “I’m fine. I know what I’m looking for.”

Just as she seems to be ready to ask if he needs help finding it, Ron vanishes between two shelves and the woman stammers.

He feels bad to duck her, but he’s on a crunch for time and stopping to engage in conversation or whatever else comes with standard human interaction isn’t in his interests right now. Though, just as he feels his resolve burning out, he reaches the backmost corner of the store and nearly hits face on a plexiglass case. Barely saving his nose, he prepares himself to curse at the inanimate object, before actually seeing the item within the case.

A gilded wooden box sits atop the stand shielded by the thick glass, with the words _‘sonat ex animo’_ inscribed on its front. Extending like a limb from the box’s left side is a windable crank, and its then, Ron knows he’s successfully located the gift for Polly.  


He’s nearly reached the end of the Alley when he realizes he hasn’t gotten a gift for Missy. Checking the time, he exhales irritably as he hadn’t yet found a shop likely to carry something that would be special to his little girl. And, as though fate strikes him, just as he turns to walk the opposite way; the way he came - he notices a shop he’d never seen here before. Wedged between Ollivanders and a shop known for their superb skincare potions, Ron reads a sign - scripted in fancy cursive and enchanted so the letters glow invitingly are the words ‘Pretty Patil’s’, which ring more than just a few bells.

Sooner than he can talk himself out of it, Ron finds himself walking inside, nearly startled by the melodic chirp of the bell connected to the door. There’s no one at the counter, save for a large, white cat - which appears to glare at Ron, as though he had interrupted something. Certain that a feline doesn’t run the store, he looks around to see if any employees are there - but finds himself lost in the rows and rows of beautiful dresses, and walls lined with makeup and hair potions. Undoubtedly, he’s out of place - and the sudden presence seems to agree as a woman comes down from a ladder near the back of the store.

“I’m so sorry, sir, but we’re closing in less than five minutes,” informs the woman as she hastily approaches the counter, her wild but carefully styled head of blonde curls following her movements with a healthy bounce. Her eyes had been focused on writing what looked to be a receipt, or an order for something - that is, until her bright blue eyes dart up and become so wide, the redhead is almost afraid they’ll fall out of her sockets.

“Uh - I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I’ll just be on my wa-”

“R-Ron?”

The youngest Weasley boy studies the woman quizzically, wondering how she’d known his name - before looking into her eyes, all while her voice replays in his head - and suddenly, a world of memories comes crashing in, like an unwelcomed guest.

“Merlin’s garters,” mumbles Ron, blinking in disbelief, “Lav? What are you doing here?”

Rolling her eyes, her astonishment seeming to have melted away all at once, Lavender Brown scoops the tremendously fat cat up into her arms and cradles the now-purring creature maternally, “This is my shop. Well, mine and Parvati’s. She’s away, though - so it’s just me, for a few days.” Smiling politely, Lavender is gravely disappointed to find that this boy - this _man_ \- is still as handsome as he was all those years ago. Even more so, now. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since seventh year.”

“I’ve … I’ve been okay. Sort of going through a rough patch right now, though - which is part of why I came here. I thought maybe I could find something for my daughter, but this stuff looks like it’s all for grown women.”

Listening intently, a blonde brow cocks as, again, her eyes fall onto the face of the clock set atop the counter. She really shouldn’t make exceptions … but this is an old friend. Perhaps, just this once - Parvati surely wouldn’t mind. And she isn’t here to mind, anyway.

“Actually, we do have children’s items. How old is she?”

“Almost two,” answers Ron, blinking with surprise. After how things had gone between them, he’d expect Lavender to be less cordial with him - even if it was going on seven years ago, now. From what he’d experienced, women could hold grudges for life - and Lavender had always seemed just the type to do so, though she’d always been kind on the surface.

“Yes, Parvati sews for little ones,” nods Lavender, “I know she’s a little young, but what does she like?”

Scrunching his nose, Ron shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Girly things really seem to excite her, though. Frills and whatnot.”

Sculpted brows shoot up with surprise. _Ron and Hermione’s child? Into Fashion?_ “A girl after my own heart,” she giggles, nodding her head toward the back of the store. “Come with me. I think I have just the thing for her.”

Bewildered, Ron follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please review! ♡
> 
> ( [my tumblr.](https://malfoid.tumblr.com/) )


	3. Chapter 3

Sixteen minutes pass. Harry’s throat tightens with worry - Draco usually owls him back within seven, and even _if_ he’s tied up, he can make it less than ten. The sun is dangerously close to setting, with the last puffs of red swirling low in the sky like a dying hearth. Through the open window, he can hear the end of the evening bustle as it clears for whatever nightlife takes place outside of the Aurors’ Office, which is surprisingly substantial, Harry’s noticed overtime. Perhaps it’s irrational for the Auror to be as concerned for his husband as he is; but being Harry Potter, he knows better than to blindly trust that all people bear good intentions. Being a man that’s survived a war, he’s well-aware of the sinister potential sixteen minutes holds. Seventeen, now. Seventeen and a half.

The office has gone eerily quiet now that Ron has left, and it does nothing to alleviate Harry’s developing paranoia. He hears Draco’s voice in his mind telling him to ease up; telling him that the war is over, that for now, they can live in peace. He sees his eyes, like blocks of ice, despite how they keep him warm. He never wants to stop seeing those eyes, or hearing that voice. Closing the window, he snatches his keys and leaves for the lobby, to Floo to St. Mungo’s.

“Listen, Lady,” Pansy’s irritated voice ricochets from the vestibule’s ivory walls, rising like flames as her voice struggles to restrain its ire, “I’ve done everything I can for you, right now. I sent your husband’s files to the Aurors’ Office, and they’re going to take care of the case from there. I can’t tell you anything else at this point.”

The woman’s indignant stare flashes with frustration, and for a moment, Pansy’s hand twitches toward her wand. She curbs her defensive instinct, however, remembering where she is.

“I want to speak to someone else,” says the widow, her obstinate voice like gasoline thrown to the Healer’s inferno, “someone with more power than you. Where is the Head Healer?”

Jaw set so tightly it threatens to crack, Pansy rolls her eyes, uncaring if she appears unprofessional at this point. “He’s going to tell you the same thing.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

Just as she snaps, as fury reaches the top of her throat - a white-robed figure cloaked in a lime-coloured cape enters the vicinity; the way his robes sweep behind him almost makes him look as though he’s flying. By movement alone, he appears just as irritated as Pansy, but manages to hold enough compassion in his expression to contradict such chagrin.

“What seems to be the problem, here?” asks the wizard, eyes shifting between the unknown woman’s curious gaze, and Pansy’s angry mug.

“Mrs. Watergate was just asking to see you, Draco,” says Pansy, crossing her arms over her chest, “apparently, she thinks you’ll have some good news for her.” The singsong manner in which the dark-haired healer tells him this is wrought with mockery, and Draco’s silvery gaze wordlessly warns her to remain cordial, despite his sympathies toward dealing with impossible patients - or their just-as-impossible (if not, _more_ so) families, for the matter.

The widow’s lips part to emit an offended breath, her too-thin brows lowering menacingly close to her coppery eyes in response to Pansy’s impulsive bearing. “How _dare_ you? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I just want some closure for myself and my children, but I bet you have no idea what that’s like, you mouthy little-”

“Ma’am,” Draco cuts in, gently taking Pansy by the arm and urging her behind him as he steps forward, “I assure you Healer Parkinson has been working diligently toward your husband’s case. Considering she’s switched departments, the responsibility technically doesn’t oblige her any longer, but she’s willingly decided to offer what she knows to help you. I would encourage you speak to her a little less irritably.”

Pansy’s brow raises expectantly, waiting for an apology that she never receives. Mrs. Watergate’s expression goes mild with guilt, but upon looking toward her established adversary, she only tightens her lips and ignores her, instead focusing on Draco.

“I want to see the files,” she tells him, “I want to see what you sent to Auror Potter.”

A deep exhalation passes through the Head’s nostrils, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Watergate. We can’t share that with you at this point in time. It’s up to Auror Potter and Auror Weasley to decide when that will be appropriate.”

Torso flexing so that she can lean beyond the frame of Draco’s body, Pansy raises her eyebrows toward Mrs. Watergate, as if to nonverbally ensure that this is exactly what she’d told her just minutes prior.

“He was _my_ husband!” The woman shouts, but neither of the Healers flinch, “I _deserve_ to see the files!”

“You will,” informs Draco, “just not now. Again, I’m sorry - but there’s nothing we can do.”

“Don’t you have any compassion?! Aren’t you married? What if this happened to your husband, Healer Malfoy?” The widow spits, “Next, it’ll be _your_ family!”

This time, Draco is alarmed by the woman’s tone - the way she’d hollered that last phrase almost seemed intentional - _threatening_ . “Excuse me?” The man prompts, eyes narrowing coldly, “Was that a _threat_ , Mrs. Watergate?”

The woman takes a step back, but holds her murderous expression. “Show me the files.”

In light of her demand, Draco turns to Pansy, whose shocked eyes have since grown in size. Her neck shortens as her chin tips down, blinking at him with disgruntled surprise.

“Leave.”

The Healer’s voice cuts the atmosphere like the very curse that nearly killed him years ago, and the widow’s countenance flashes a shocked mien before tightening with anger again. Flicking her head fiercely to the left, seemingly to clear her hair from her eyes, she turns swiftly on her heel and apparates to an unknown destination.

Releasing the fist he hadn’t known he’d formed in such a maddening exchange, Draco eyes the crumpled note in his hand, realizing he’d neglected to write back.

“Freak,” Pansy hisses once the presence has left, and Draco nods.

“I understand that she’s grieving, but the fact that she’d be such a twat to us when we’re doing all we can to help her is unprecedented.” He sighs, closing his eyes as a sudden headache throbs in his eye sockets.

“I’ll say,” comes a third voice, followed by the sound of barely-heeled boots making precise contact with the floor. Harry’s face holds a considerable amount of disgust, having to see his husband be spoken to with such ill manners, “what the hell was that about?”

Pansy sits on the ledge of the receptionist desk, rolling her eyes, “Watergate’s wife. She managed to catch wind that the talented and benevolent healer that treated him is still here, and has all of his files on hand,” crossing one leg over the other, she shifts her weight to her hands, which rest firmly on the overhang, “Naturally, she wanted to see them, and I told her why it’s a no-go. She got pissy, Draco got involved - I’m sure you can piece the rest together.”

“Did you catch the bit about her threatening our family?” Asks Draco, clearly stunned by the widow’s audacity, “don’t forget that _rich_ little comment.”

“She probably just said it to scare you,” Pansy theorizes, “clearly she’s messed up in the head. Not that I blame her, considering what she’s endured - aside from the whole acting like a tosser.”

“Pansy’s right, I think,” says Harry, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder, “It’s obvious how intensely she’s grieving. She definitely shouldn’t have mouthed that far off, but it most likely doesn’t hold any substance. Just for that, though, maybe I should stall on her getting to see these files …”

Pansy snorts, and Draco cracks a smile.

“As much as she deserves it, you can’t, Harry,” Draco sighs, massaging his eyes with his fingers, “Sorry I didn’t owl you back. I came down here to get quill ink, actually, when I came across Pansy about to hex Watergate’s wife.”

“Unlike her, I actually would have done it,” she claims, hopping off the desk and checking the time. “I’ve got to head home. The night shifters are already here, Draco, so you’re good to clock out, if you were going to.”

Draco nods her off, and Harry offers a wave prior to his vision refocusing on his husband. “Don’t feel bad about the owl.”

“I know how you get,” says Draco, “how many times did you pace around your office, thinking about ways I could have been murdered?”

“Hah!” Harry exclaims, an amused grin splitting his lips apart before he surveys Draco’s knowing face, and sighs. “Four.”

Smirking, Draco strokes his forefinger beneath Hermia’s beak as she settles on his shoulder. “One less than last time. A new record, Potter, I’m impressed.”

* * *

 Blue eyes scale the massive walls of makeup and gowns, astounded by the shop’s stunning interior as he remembers how small and quaint it seemed from the outside. Of course, he hadn’t kept up with Lavender or Parvati since he’d left school, aside from his relief to hear from Draco, while he was still in training, that the former had survived Greyback’s attack and was making a slow, but outstanding recovery in St. Mungo’s’ Creature-Induced Injuries Ward. According to the Malfoy heir, he kept a lot of small talk with Lavender - not only to keep her conscious but out of genuine curiosity to know what her ambitions had been upon her discharge.

Ron didn’t care to hear any of what he found. Not due to a lack of care for Lavender, evident by the way he nearly cried with joy when he’d heard that she would be okay, but out of a _guilt_ he still felt for the way things ended between them - more specifically, the way he had treated her. She seems not to hold a particular grievance, however, with how she’s humming happily, that obscenely overweight cat bobbing in her arms as they finally reach the back of the store. To put it bluntly, it’s freaking him out. She ought to be angry with him.

“Alright, let’s see - would you hold Stockings, please? I need my arms free.”

At first, he willingly extends his arms - but as the feline meets his eyes, he swears he sees nothing but evil in the yellowish hues. His lips stretch to a deep frown, and his eyes fill with reluctance - but Lavender seems not to notice as she drops the rotund mass of white fur into Ron’s arms, which had since slightly curved with second thoughts.

Stockings hisses, and the redhead flinches, eyes forming fearful crescents, “Lav-”

“Oh, hush, Ron, she’s not going to hurt you. Are you squeezing her? Don’t do that, she doesn’t like it.”

“I think it’s _me_ she doesn’t like,” Ron whines, but Lavender dismisses him, turning back to the rows of garments to try to find what she’d been looking for.

Perhaps then, Lavender is angry with him. Perhaps she’d spent years training this cat to hate him, all for one chance for it to sink its claws into his face and completely rip it off. That’s got to be it - he can see the intention in Stockings’ animalistic gaze, the way her claws are extended from her black-furred feet, which he assumes earned the little demon her name.

“It’s Parvati’s cat,” she tells Ron, as though she’d been reading his mind, “She’s at her sister’s wedding - her family decided they wanted to have it in Panaji, which is why she’s gone. I’m just catsitting. My parents would never let me keep a cat of my own in their house.”

Ron hears her little giggle, and considers all of this information while holding Stockings at least sixty centimeters  away from his body. He catches onto something though, and speaks on it before he’d actually had the time to stop himself, “You still live with your parents?”

A miserable sigh can be heard from behind the cluster of dresses she’s wandlessly turning around the rack, scaling through them diligently with her eyes. “Yes, unfortunately. They were stubborn in wanting to take care of me after the war, but now that I’m all better, they’ve basically said there’s no need for me to leave until I get married. Like _that’s_ the first thing on my agenda.”

Now, he can see why Draco had been so interested in Lavender’s life. He realizes just how long it’s been - she’s gone from someone he’d known everything, or at least a hell of a lot, about to almost a total stranger, and he’s sure it’s the same for her, too. Pursing his lips, he shifts awkwardly and hopes she’ll find the dress a little quicker.

“It’s nice to be able to save up, though … think about my options. Next year I’m moving out for sure, no matter what they say.” Her light blue eyes peek up from above the rack, and she sees her customer holding the cat as far away from his body as his arms will allow. Giggling once again, she shakes her head and moves to a different rack. “You can put her down, if you want. Merlin, you’re _still_ so dramatic.”

Relieved, Ron sets the feline on the floor as hastily as possible. “Say what you want, but she’s plotting my murder. I’m surprised you aren’t, too.”

The soft clicks of moving hangers stop. Ron holds his breath, realizing what he’s just said, and prays for a time turner. Silence thickens the air for a few seconds, prior to the sound of another one of Lavender’s deep sighs, though this time it almost sounds miffed.

“That was six years ago, Ron.”

She hasn’t moved from her place among the dresses, thus her face is still hidden - but Ron can hear the tiredness in her voice. Feeling safer obstructed from her view, his hand ascends to rub with embarrassment at his neck as he shrugs - though presumably, she can’t see that.

“I thought you’d still be mad about it. I expected you to be-”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lavender asks sharply, and Ron almost yelps.

“I- Nothing! It’s just- I just- I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you were, is all I meant.” He huffs, shaking his head vigorously, “Look, Lav, can we not talk about this right now? I shouldn’t have even said that, I’m sorry.”

Lavender is quiet. She noticed that he’d said ‘right now’, which may have implied there would be another time to talk about it. But knowing Ronald Weasley, there’s a better chance there won’t be. “Don’t apologize. You’re right, this isn’t the time to talk about that kind of stuff. Sorry I snapped at you a little bit.”

Disconcertment allayed, the Weasley lets a quiet sigh past his lips. “It’s alri-”

“Aha!” Lavender declares, nearly frightening Ron’s soul out of his skin. Peeking above the rack once more, the shopkeep smiles apologetically, a hint of colour to her cheeks as she finally comes out from beyond the sphere of garments, holding a particular gown in her hand. “Found it.”

The tiny little dress is sewn primarily of golden fabric, with traces of red accented in carefully selected areas to present a truly elegant, bold ensemble. The skirt fluffs out just enough to offer a bell-shape to the gown, and the sleeves are just as dramatic with large ballgown-like puffs from which the wearer’s arms would extend. It’s gorgeous. Artemis will surely love it.

“Wow,” Ron enunciates, coming closer to apreciate the detail, “Parvati made this?”

“Yep!” Lavender confirms, her cheerful air about her again, “She’s sewn every dress in this shop, actually. All of the makeup is my doing.”

Ron blinks, “There’s got to be a million things in here - how did you guys find all the time to make it?”

“You don’t expect us to reveal _all_ our secrets, do you?” teases the blonde, before tilting her head to a side, “So, do you think she’ll like it?”

“I know she will,” he murmurs, “it’s even Gryffindor colours! I mean - not to assume she’ll be a Gryffindor, but-”

Lavender smiles, and places the gown in his arms. “Here, it’s yours.”

“Aah - What do I owe you?” He asks anxiously, just now realizing how expensive the dress looks.

“Hey, I said it’s yours, didn’t I?” Lavender reminds, placing her hands on his shoulders and turning him around, “So take it.”

Piecing together what this alludes to, Ron’s mouth opens to protest almost immediately, but he finds himself being shoved all the way to the front of the store by Lavender, who is now behind him, steering him forward. “Lav, I- But Parvati- I can’t just take it!”

“Sure, you can,” says Lavender, huffing slightly from the effort it had taken to push a grown man that far forward, though of course he naturally seemed to guide himself with her push, “Parvati won’t mind. It’s alright, Ron, really.” Her hands find her hips, but she’s smiling - or smirking, it almost appears. “Now, get out of here. The shop was supposed to be closed forty minutes ago.”

* * *

 Despite priding herself on managing to keep her living spaces fairly tidy, Hermione’s desk appears as though mischievous common pixies had ransacked it. Books and papers litter the surface in a way extremely contrary to any sense of order - though surely if anyone were to cross the threshold of her office and ask her to find something, she could do it in record time. Since the start of the divorce process, her brilliant mind has encountered a glitch in its function; though she is as sharp and capable as ever she had been, the young official can’t seem to maintain the level of organization she’d had before it all.

And it isn’t solely her desk, either. The entire office is cluttered with boxes overflowing with files, as well as stacks of books as high as her hip. In fact, the case is so severe that Hermione is startled out of her work when someone attempts to swing her office door open, only for the slab of wood to smack into a pile of books, knocking half the stack over.

“Oh, dear-” comes a familiar voice, laden with guilt as he sets a box of more files down, sure to place it in an area where it can be distinguished from other boxes of the same nature, to pick up the mess of volumes, “Hermione, you could really use an assistant. Or a maid.”

“Sorry!” The woman squeaks, nearly flinging herself out of her seat to help, “I didn’t realize it had gotten so bad. The Head would _kill_ me if she saw this place - I keep meaning to pick up after myself but there always seems to be a more pressing matter.” Sighing, she stuffs her hands awkwardly in her robe pockets when her peer kindly refuses her help, “Anyway - what is it you need, Percy?”

Restoring the stack to its previous height, and shoving it out of the range of the door, the third Weasley straightens his tie, offering the younger official a gentle smile. “I’m enabling you by bringing more mess, I suppose. These are the drafts for resolutions about the whole proposal that was brought in last week. I thought you might want to look them over.”

Hermione watches as Percy charms the cardboard lid off the box, surveying the files at an impressive speed before one in particular is shot up into the air, then sent her way. The brunette nods thankfully as the paper slips into her waiting hands on Percy’s command, her brown eyes surveying the first block of text. “Ah, the thing about apparating to other countries … you wanted a list of governments that plan to cooperate on this, right?”

“Right,” affirms the Transportation Head, with a curt nod, “it’s not technically _illegal_ right now, but it needs to be regulated. It takes powerful magic and on top of that, violates a lot of border regulations in certain areas. It’s just messy,” the redheads lips pull slightly downward in a disapproving frown, “your Head has already been shown, and suggested I bring it to you. With good reason, of course,” again, he smiles - and Hermione is glad to see that smile become less and less rare on him, “If she didn’t, I would have suggested it myself.”

Blushing, Hermione lets her arms fall to her sides casually, “Thank you, Percy. I’ll get on this as soon as I can. I’ll have a lot of calls to make tomorrow, won’t I?”

“Precisely why I gave it to you tonight,” he tells her, “so that you could have some time to think about the best way to tackle this.” With this statement, he nears the door once more, “I’ll probably be here late, if you need anything before you leave. Otherwise, G’night Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Percy,” she smiles, placing the file back in the box and lifting it up, only to realize she must make space for it on her desk.

Her rank in the Department of International Magical Cooperation isn’t _particularly_ high, but her work is fiercely valued - to the point where a lot of her Head’s work falls onto her. Not that she minds, of course; her senior officers never take credit for anything that she does.

After ensuring that everything she will need for tomorrow is in a specific location, she stops to, once again, look at her disaster of an office. Ron had always spoken to her exasperatedly about his brother’s bad case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, essentially saying she shouldn’t concern over his quips about her office space very much, but she knows that her former brother-in-law is right. She ought to take care of it as soon as possible.

* * *

 By the hour they had returned to Malfoy Manor, Draco’s headache had worsened to the extent that he must squint his eyes to be able to stand having them open, and that as soon as they’re in proximity of a couch, he nearly collapses upon it.

Concern etched into every corner of his features, Harry eyes his husband, who’s currently curled up in the cushions, with a pillow shielding his face from the light. “What’s wrong? Are you having a migraine?”

“I believe so,” replies Draco, voice muffled from behind the pillow.

“Do you want a painkilling potion?”

“Either that, or the killing curse.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry wanders toward the staircase, with his destination set on their ensuite bathroom to retrieve such a potion. On the way, he runs into Narcissa - her face devoid of any makeup and her form clothed in a sleek, black nightgown, which pools at the floor.

“Harry,” she breathes, almost with relief, “You’re back later than usual. Is Draco with you?”

“Yes, he’s downstairs,” Harry informs his mother-in-law, “he’s caught a nasty migraine, though, so I came up to get him a potion.” So comes a pause, and then he remembers the question he’d wanted to ask upon first seeing her, “Lucy get to bed okay? I’m sad we arrived so late, but both of us managed to get tied up. I know how fussy she gets when we aren’t there to say goodnight …”

With an understanding smile, Narcissa nods. “Yes, she went down well, surprisingly. Lucius was the one who actually got her to sleep - I don’t know how he did it, but she’s been quiet since seven.”

“Really?” asks the younger mage, green eyes wide with surprise, “Lucius? I didn’t expect him to have a way with kids.”

Clicking her tongue, Narcissa starts to brush past him with a barely-audible giggle. “Me either.”

Eventually, Harry has gathered both the potion from the bathroom, and a glass of water from the kitchen. However, as he re-enters the common room to offer the items to his partner, the man is nowhere to be found. Puzzled, Harry sets the items down onto the glass table and calls his name, mindful that Lucy is asleep in the nursery. “Draco?”

In light of no response, he just about scours the entire downstairs, slowly becoming less calm as he finds nothing - or no one, rather. “Draco?” He calls again, slightly louder. Lucy could always be put back to sleep.

As he finds Lucius’ study, he opens the door - hopeful, but not necessarily expecting to find Draco there. The aforementioned patriarch lifts his head from the morning’s issue of The Daily Prophet, meeting his son-in-law’s gaze with a perplexed flicker in his eyes.

“I- Have you seen Draco within the last few minutes?”

“No,” the older man responds simply, folding the paper closed before asking cautiously, “what’s wrong?”

His desire to spend as little time with Lucius as possible kicks in, and having received the information he needs he awkwardly starts to back out of the doorway. “Nothing, I- Well, he’s just disappeared. He was on the couch a moment ago, and I left to get him a potion for his headache and-”

Before Harry can finish that thought and bolt to look upstairs, a rather loud crash can be heard - and _felt_ \- above the study, followed by loud wails from a very much awake Lucy.

Panic flashes through Harry, and he just about sprints away toward the staircase, shouting Draco’s name. Lucius had been just as startled by the occurrence, and follows behind Harry - sure to bring his wand with him, just in case he finds himself in a position to use it.

Racing up the stairs and nearly tripping over himself to reach the nursery, from where the crying projects, Harry’s tan skin nearly goes white at what he finds.

Narcissa is distraughtly bent over an unconscious Draco, whose body is sprawled out beside a shattered lamp and picture frame. From her crib, Lucy stands and grips the bars, crying loudly at having witnessed her father drop to the floor like a ton of lead.

“What’s happened?” asks Harry, immediately dropping to his knees by Draco’s side, “is he alright?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Narcissa says through tight breaths, “I suppose he snuck up here to say goodnight to Lucy, and he fainted.”

“Merlin,” Harry sighs, though he’s thankful that he doesn’t see a single trace of blood. He traces his fingers lightly along Draco’s head. No knots. “He must’ve hit his head on the table, which is why all this stuff’s on the floor. He doesn’t have any knots or apparent injuries, but that doesn’t mean he’s escaped a concussion.” Of course, there’s a rise and fall to Draco’s chest, but it’s dangerously slow.

“Lucius, owl St. Mungo’s, won’t you?” Narcissa pleads, and her husband immediately whistles for whichever of the owls will come first. Hermia swoops in like a bullet.

As Harry adopts her position of worrying over Draco, Narcissa rises to take the still-screaming Lucy into her arms. “It’s alright, Love,” she comforts, cooing at the frightened child, “Daddy’s okay. He’s okay. Shhhh.”

Perhaps at all of the commotion, Draco’s face scrunches inward and he attempts to sit up. Pain flashes through his body, and he only ends up grunting lowly, catching Harry’s attention instantaneously.

“Draco! Are you okay?” Harry very gently presses down on his husband’s chest, urging him to cease trying to sit up. “Stop that. You’re just going to hurt yourself - give yourself a moment to rest.”

“Harry,” Draco croaks quietly, and by this point, all eyes are on him. Lucy has even stopped crying, “What’s going on? What happened?”

“You’ve fainted,” he doesn’t hesitate to explain, “I’m fairly certain you banged your head on Lucy’s little table. We’re owling for Healers to come get you, just to be safe.”

“What? No,” Draco protests, and Harry looks at him with confusion. “Don’t do that. I’m fine.”

“No you’re not, dear,” Narcissa argues, “You fell like a ragdoll. Lucius, send the owl.”

“Don’t,” tries the youngest Malfoy, “Please, don’t waste your time. I’ve spent enough time at that hospital today. I don’t have a concussion. I’d know if I did.” Giving in, Harry helps Draco to sit up, supporting his arm and back. “I just need to rest. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Draco …” Narcissa murmurs, her voice softer than her worry-filled eyes, “Draco, please. I do hope you’re being honest.”

A moment of silence comes, and Lucius motions to Hermia that she can go. For a moment, the flaps of her wings are the only sound in the room, aside from the gentle snoring that alludes to Lucy having fallen asleep on Narcissa’s chest.

Green eyes are saturated in the deepest hue of concern, and Harry reaches out, scooping Draco up in his arms and rising to his feet.

“Wh- Harry, put me down.”

“No,” Harry says simply, swiftly carrying his husband out of the room. “I’m taking you to bed. You will drink your potion and a glass of water and go straight to sleep.”

Shocked, Draco looks up at his husband - trying to appear stern, but the way he’s being carried bridal style renders this feat nearly impossible. “Who exactly died to make you the boss of me?”

“You almost did,” responds the dark-haired wizard, by that point having reached their bedroom in the ridiculously large and difficult-to-navigate manor, “I’m not going to allow you to screw yourself over tonight. Not after all that’s happened today. If you’re not going to take good care of yourself, then I _will_.”

The force with which Harry speaks that last word, emphasized by the way he’s placed onto the bed, Draco heeds his mother’s talent and knows now that he should be silent. He doesn’t make a sound as Harry pries off his shoes, and says nothing as his robes are removed as well. He even manages to stay quiet as the covers are drawn back, and Harry tucks him in. This vow of silence, however, breaks as Harry kisses his forehead, and gently strokes across his cheek.

“Thank you,” murmurs the silver-haired of the two men, and his other half only smiles softly in response before turning to retrieve the potion and water from downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! 
> 
> i'm officially on winter break, now, so expect this story to be updated more frequently! things are starting to move a bit quicker in the plot, so by the next chapter, there will be a bit more action as opposed to just setting the stage. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! be sure to check out my [tumblr](http://malfoid.tumblr.com/) if you're interested in more content from me. ♡


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you're aware, in this story, pansy is half-korean, from her mother's side. "omma" is the korean word for mom.

Lucius and Narcissa had not yet woken up, but Harry started from his sleep as his spine conducted an instinctual chill. Intuition was usually Draco’s niche, but when it came to things being slightly _off_ or worrisome, Harry tended to be more sensitive to these types of changes. So when his eyes shoot open to the pitch-black scene of his bedroom at five-forty-five a.m., he knows without thinking it’s because something’s wrong.

By the minute he seizes his spectacles, his eyes have gotten used to the dark. Slipping them on his face, he sees geometric slivers of Draco’s skin highlighted a pale blue from the moon, whose light peeks through a crack in the curtains shielding the balcony. He appears to be sleeping - though as he’d learned the very moment Hagrid set foot into the Dursleys’ cabin to spin tales of magic, not everything in the world really is how it appears to be.

His husband’s breathing is low, but not heavy as it normally is when he’s asleep. In fact, his chest rises and falls so subtly that Harry nearly misses it - though nothing can stop the fear that shoots through him. He opts to wake him up - so what if Draco commits verbal murder for it? At least he’ll be alive to it.

Gently, Harry grips the one of Draco’s shoulders closest to him. “Draco?”

Nothing.

He tries again, shaking him this time. “Draco?” He says louder, voice almost pleading; mind certainly _praying_ that he’ll get a response. He does note, however, that even in the darkness, the Healer looks paler than usual - and his skin is cold. The more seconds that pass, the more Harry suspects it’s not because of the chilly September night. “Oh gods,” he chokes on his sigh, this time leaning over Draco to see his face with greater clarity.

Lids delicately shroud his eyes, with light lashes protruding just as daintily - like if the wind blew, they’d fly away with it. His lips are parted purposelessly, as though their only task lies in creating an orifice for the soul, instead of speaking. He looks less than alive, and at this point, Harry is looking down at his chest every few seconds to make sure that he still is.

Just as a shriek rises in his throat, Draco’s eyes barely open - gray irises a ghostly and unfocused sight beneath them, as it seems to take quite a bit of effort for the silver lenses to meet Harry’s petrified gaze. “Harry …” his hardly move at all, and his voice sounds as though he speaks through a muffled shredder. His commanding presence is nowhere to be found. “Harry,” he says again, slightly louder but hardly so, “listen .. it’s - i was wrong, last night. Something has happened … to me. But not a concussion … it’s a … it’s a curse.”

“A curse,” Harry’s eyes are double their standard size, though only for a flash of a moment, since it only takes seconds for anger to boil his blood. “Who did it? Draco, who cursed you? What curse is it? Draco?!”

His eyes are closing again, and his head lulls to a side. “... to St. Mungo’s.” Is all he manages to say, and Harry doesn’t need to be told again.

Which brings him at least a bit of fortune, because Draco is surely unconscious by that point.

* * *

 Sunlight squeezes its way between the divide of her dark curtains, and as it caresses her lids with an active intent, hazel eyes finally unveil and thrust her into the realm of the awake. Judging the time of year, it must be fairly early - and stretching her neck enough to see the clock stationed on her nightstand, Pansy can see her hypothesis is proven by its face reading just past six-thirty a.m.

She groans. It’s much too early for her to be awake, but too late to go back to sleep. That, and the raven-haired woman _despises_ any time before ten-thirty a.m., naturally - nevertheless, she swallows her scorn and sits up enough to stretch out any cricks her body had developed through the night. There are many more than usual, which reinstitutes the fact that she hadn’t slept very well; thoughts of that _freak_ Watergate and her foolish behaviour flooded her mind and kept her awake for the greater part of the prior night.

The woman was just so off-putting. The way she stormed in, demanding what she must have known she couldn’t have - and even if she lacked the knowledge, possessed the audacity to rudely call, or _nearly_ call, Pansy out of her name. Not to mention the way she had assumed the Healer knew nothing about family, and lacked any values where the subject is concerned … which simply isn’t true. Despite her circumstances being far from the most ideal, after a certain snowy evening in late February, her life had a new purpose.

And said purpose is currently wailing in the next room, wanting the world to know that he’s woken up.

Instantly getting to her knees, the woman slips a shirt over her bare chest and hastily climbs out of bed, shoving her feet into her slippers on the way.

Olive had never been an overly-fussy baby, but he’s simply impatient - a fact which erases any doubt in the minds of those who know Pansy that he is his mother’s son. Tossing a blanket over her shoulder and letting it drape down, the mother gathers the child in her arms, settling him over her hip so she could pull up her shirt and not only provide him with breakfast, but provide _quiet_ for her still-sleeping parents.

The one-year-old occupies himself with her breast and Pansy sighs in relief, though once she hears shuffling about the house, she knows at least one of her parents rose before she could hush Olive. The door to the nursery opens slowly and quietly, and turning her head, Pansy sees the face of her mother peek through the opening.

“You’re both up early,” remarks the woman with a smile, her monolids becoming bright crescents as she smiles toward the two generations standing right before her, “Must you be at St. Mungo’s early today?”

“No,” Pansy responds, giving Olive tiny little bounces in her arms as she feeds him, “I just woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. Which is a shocker, considering I barely got any last night.”

“Aish, oh no …” Mrs. Parkinson murmurs through her frown, immediately stepping into the room to press her dainty fingers to her daughter’s forehead. For the second time this morning, Pansy groans - but now, she’s smiling.

“ _Omma_ ,” she mumbles, carefully freeing one of her hands to playfully swat at the woman’s, “I’m fine. I’m not sick. Something crazy just happened at Mungo’s last night, and it got to me. Some woman came in and tried to order Draco and me around - you should have seen her. I’m pretty sure she was going to call me a bimbo.”

Her mother’s soft expression immediately turns to one of antipathy. “Why would she call you that? Who was this woman?”

“Remember the case I told you and Dad about? Watergate?” With her mother’s nod, Pansy sighs through her nostrils, “well, his wife barged in wanting to see classified documents that I passed along to Harry and Ron. When I told her she couldn’t, she got all pissy about it.”

Mrs. Parkinson exhales, almost dolefully, and her tired eyes look up at her daughter with worry. “You didn’t take her bait, did you, Pansy? You should have called me there and let me handle it.”

Laughing, Pansy pulls down her shirt and offers Olive to his grandmother, perhaps in a subconscious effort to drain the feist out of her, “You know, I thought about it, but I’m not sure what my fifty-four-year-old mother can do that I can’t.”

“Not get fired from St. Mungo’s,” responds the cheeky matriarch, and Pansy snorts, padding out of the room in favour of the kitchen.

Following her daughter, with the now-cooing child in her arms, Mrs. Parkinson watches to see the young woman gathering eggs. “Want me to make breakfast for you and Dad, too?” asks Pansy, and her mother smiles at the thoughtful offer.

“Only if you feel up to it. But remember, your father’s on a low-cholesterol diet. No egg yolks for him.”

“Ugh,” Pansy groans, “Why’s he have to be so off-the-wall?”

Just as the older woman starts to laugh, Hermia hoots faintly as she settles on a cabinet ledge, bearing a note. Curiously, Mrs. Parkinson nears the bird to take the folded parchment, scanning the first line before looking up toward Pansy. “It’s for you. From Harry Potter.”

Pansy stops mid-crack of an egg and grabs a towel to wipe her hands. Taking the note from her mother, she pauses a moment to read it. Her face twists with worry, and Mrs. Parkinson nears her instinctively.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Draco,” Pansy whispers, “he fainted last night, just out of the blue. Harry says he’s not waking up, now. I gotta go, _Omma_ , you’ll have to finish breakfast.”

Unease written boldly across her face, Mrs. Parkinson nods as her daughter bolts out of the room to wash up and get dressed as quickly as humanly possible.

* * *

Hermione watches with fond amusement as Luna attempts to balance as many hotcakes as she can atop one another. The stack has become rather impressive, and as she sips thoughtfully at her coffee, she figures the other woman deserves ample praise for accomplishing such a risky feat. Surely all the time she’d spent making them shouldn’t go to waste for such a display, but the blonde’s excitement to have surpassed some sort of self-set record is certainly worth it.

“Luna, you’d better use magic to bring those here,” comes Ginny’s voice from behind Hermione as she enters the faction of the kitchen set aside for eating, “I’m not sure Hermione’s learned any spells to disinfect dropped hotcakes from the Ministry.”

Laughing, Hermione shakes her head. “I’m sure if such a spell exists, Luna already knows it.”

The freckle-faced woman smiles at her as she takes her seat beside the brunette, half-heartedly eyeing the array of papers spread out before her. “What’s all this stuff for?”

“Work,” Hermione sighs, knowing that the sisterly figure might have thought they were more divorce-related files, “I spent all night organizing policies from other countries on apparation. You know, the big issue now is about where you can and can’t do it - it’s amazing this hasn’t really been much of a problem in the past, but a lot of Magical Governments have taken issue with it recently. I’m assuming there’s a bigger picture, but that one’s for the Aurors’ Office.”

Nodding, Ginny thanks her wife as she places a warm plate before her. “Apparating, huh … no doubt something’s going on. It’s hard to patrol something like that, I’d imagine.”

“Oh, it is,” Hermione verifies solemnly, though he face does break into a grateful smile as Luna presents her with breakfast, “your brother Percy is primarily in charge of that, as Transportation Head. They have this enormous radar that shows them a world map, and they can expand any pinpoints of unregistered or suspicious cases of it. Any misuses go straight to the Improper Use office.”  

“Really?” Ginny’s brows raise as she pokes at her eggs, “It’s that serious, is it? I never would have guessed.”

“They should invest in a Nargle Radar,” says a concerned Luna, as Ginny rises to pull her chair out for her and place a pillow in her lap. Wisely so, for as pregnant as she is, Luna could very well pop at any minute, “though I don’t find that would fall under Transportation. Maybe Magical Creatures, Spirit Division?”

Hermione blinks at the Magizoologist. “Ah, maybe you should petition that, Luna. As good as you are at your job, I’m sure they’d want to hear it directly from you.”

“Good idea!” Luna chirps, and Ginny shakes her head.

“Don’t even think about it until after Axel is born. I know how worked up you get about these things,” her wife scolds, though Luna’s eyes only widen in a way that conceives interest rather than surprise.

“Well, maybe you should carry our next child,” says Luna, tapping at her own chin pensively, “You could use a year off from the Harpies, I think.”

Hermione almost snorts at how affronted Ginny looks toward this suggestion.

“Well - I - I don’t know, I mean - you have a calmer job. You can still work while you’re pregnant. I can’t, and well - I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. That’s why you offered to carry Axel, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you two,” pipes up Hermione through a knowing sigh, “focus on this one, now. You haven’t even picked a middle name, have you? And he’s due any month now.”

The tips of Ginny’s ears turn scarlet, and she looks down at her food. Luna’s eyes scan her, the pale woman’s face filling with instant concern.

“Ginny, love … what’s the matter?”

The redheaded woman’s back straightens like it’s been struck by a whip, and her eyes are wide by the time Hermione catches sight of them. In nervous habit, she tucks a long flyaway behind her ear and the kitchen fills with her weighted groan. “I wanted to tell you this as late as possible,” the Chaser admits, guilt threaded around her usually bold and fearless tone, “but that would probably only make things worse, wouldn’t it?”

Bemusement shines in Luna’s silvery eyes, yet she nods.

“I …” softly, she takes one of Luna’s hands and looks directly into her eyes. Her grasp is warm and her countenance apologetic, but Luna doesn’t appear nervous to hear whatever will leave her lips. She looks calm, albeit slightly worried - but her trust for her wife is evident and Hermione admires it greatly. The women’s relationship always seemed to have such deep feeling and perceiving that words were hardly needed to convey emotions.

Suddenly feeling intrusive, Hermione attempts to look busy with her files.

“I know it’s a ways away, but I have to play a match this Christmas,” she finally reveals, “Christmas Eve. Which means I won’t be here to celebrate with you …”

Luna says nothing, so Ginny goes on. “I’m sorry. I just found out a week ago - it was originally supposed to be Puddlemere and the Magpies, but the coordinators switched it since Puddlemere played last year and it wouldn’t have been fair for so many of the players to miss two Christmases in a row.” She looks despondent as she explains, though Luna’s expression doesn’t change at all, Ginny notices - aside from the subtle raise of eyebrows once the news is revealed.

Finally, after an unbearable silence, Ginny whines, “For Salazar’s sake, Luna, say something?”

Blinking as though she’d just been woken up, Luna’s eyes remain wide open and staring, before she tilts her head and smiles, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on her wife’s forehead. “This was supposed to be our first Christmas together since we got married, in January,” she reminds, and Ginny averts her gaze guiltily, “ _But,_ ” continues the naturalist, and the redhead’s gaze flies to meet her again, “There’s always next year, isn’t there? And Axel will be here to celebrate it with us, which will make it even more special, don’t you think?” Luna pauses, licking her lips before speaking with surety, “Axel Marcellus Weasley, and his first Christmas. Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Ginny only looks at her wife with eyes so wide, Hermione is briefly concerned they will simply pop out of their sockets. She notices the thin glaze over them - and the bit of wetness attempting to pool at her lids; the radiant smile that conquers her freckled face renders these happy tears. “Oh, Luna!” She sings, pulling her beaming wife into a tight hug, “I love it! Marcellus - it’s perfect. Where did you come up with it?”

“A dream,” she responds, rubbing along Ginny’s back, “my mother whispered it to me in a dream. I’d only recalled it just now - and of course, you’ll still be with us for Christmas Day, won’t you be?”

“Yes,” Ginny answers certainly, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Still, it’ll be lonely here without you …” Luna hums, “Just Hermione and I. I’m so used to it being us three.”

Surprised, Hermione looks up from her work that she’d been half-doing. “Really?”

“Well, of course!” Luna trills, “you’re family to us! We’re so glad to have you here, Hermione.”

Touched, the dark-skinned woman sets her quill down and purses her lips; surely they’d quiver with emotion if she left them alone. She looks toward Ginny, who nods, and immediately, she starts with an idea, “Well - Luna, how about you and I spend Christmas Eve with the Potters? Molly’s invited them to dinner at Grimmauld Place, and afterward, we can go back with them to Malfoy Manor and spend the evening in good company. How does that sound?”

Luna grins, nodding her head. “I quite like that idea! I have so many earrings I’ve made for Draco, and for Lucy. Miss Narcissa, too!”

Ginny chuckles, “What about Harry?”

Eyes flashing toward the redhead, Luna’s eyes are bright and round, “Are his ears pierced?”

* * *

Pansy nearly trips over herself as she enters St. Mungo’s through the Floo in the main lobby. Several eyes are trained on her the moment she emerges from the flames, but she ignores them, running toward the front desk.

The trainee stationed there looks at her nervously - almost fearfully - his expression tight and anxious as she hastily approaches him. His fingers are braced atop the desk’s curving surface, and Pansy slams her hands down perhaps a bit too harshly, nearly scaring him out of his skin.

“Auror Potter brought Head Healer Malfoy in here earlier, yes?” She interrogates, straightening the fashion in which her cloak is settled atop her shoulders.

The young man nods enthusiastically, though his lips don’t open, as though they’ve been stapled shut.

“Okay, so what room are they in?” Presses the Healer, and the subordinate scrambles to flip through the listing before him, seemingly forgetting in his haste that he could just use his wand to lighten the task. Before Pansy can remind him, however, he speaks up.

“R-Room 76C, Spell Damage Ward, H-Healer Parkinson.”

“Thank you,” Pansy tells him, rushing to gather herself and glide toward the staircase, before she turns back, tossing a compliment over her shoulder. “Good work!”

The trainee smiles bashfully, and Pansy gives a curt nod before returning to the task at hand.

Up on the fourth floor, the entire Potter-Malfoy clan is gathered in the hospital room, forming a ring around Draco’s bed. He still hasn’t woken up.

Lucius attempts to comfort Narcissa by Draco’s left. Harry stands at his right, having not spoken a single word since bringing him here. Lucy had only just stopped crying, now nuzzled against her conscious father and dozing off to a fitful nap.

Hannah Abbott looks sadly between all of them, drowning in the tension that had taken the room like a tidal wave. She nearly drops her clipboard when Pansy Parkinson bursts through the door. Strangely, the family hardly reacts to this at all, with every atom of their being focused on the listless man in the bed.

Spotting Hannah, Pansy makes a brisk trek across the room for a status update. Already knowing without being asked, the blonde woman clears her throat and catches the raven-haired Healer up to speed. “Harry brought him in a little less than an hour ago,” she informs, “apparently Draco murmured something about being cursed in a brief moment of consciousness beforehand, but was out cold before Harry could question him further on it. I ran a few tests on him and it does appear that his condition is magically induced, but … Pansy, this is a curse I’ve never seen before. It’s literally slowly shutting his systems down, one by one. We have to hurry on a reversal spell or an antidote or else -”

“Okay,” Pansy interjects, not wanting to hear that last part, “What steps have we taken so far?”

“I’ve given him a few potions to combat the effects, and it’s working, but terribly slowly. I don’t want him to overdose on anything but the medicines aren’t powerful enough to undo the curse entirely, just to keep him alive.”

“Shit,” Pansy hisses. Though she technically doesn’t work in this department anymore, her expertise in the field of spell damage reversal has far from escaped her, “We can’t actively cure him until we know what this curse is, and exactly what it does, can we?”

“Afraid not,” says Hannah, dejected. She bites her lip, shooting Pansy a concerned look, “However … Pansy, I don’t think you should handle this. You know how dangerous it is to get involved with patients you’re so personally affiliated with. Not that Draco and I aren’t friends, but it’s evident you and he are far too close for you to think straight, and -”

“Don’t,” Pansy chides, “I can handle this, okay? I can. It’s going to be alright. Plus, you’re here to help me, keep me in line. Listen, I need - I need to do this. Harry requested me personally and I don’t want to let him down. And I’d rather not walk away from Draco when he needs me the most.”

Hannah’s eyes twinkle with emotion, but she nods her head. “Okay … okay. I’ve got you, Pansy. We can figure this out.”

Their whispering from a corner of the room had not gone unnoticed by Harry, despite the fact that he hadn’t taken his eyes away from his husband’s eerily calm face in the last hour. He does register Pansy making her way over toward him, though, and eventually brings himself to tear his gaze away.

“I just talked with Hannah. I don’t know how much she’s told you already, but we can confirm this was a curse.”

“What curse?” Harry asks, “that might help lead us to who did it.”

“That’s the problem, Harry,” Pansy sighs, “We don’t know. This isn’t a curse from any book. It’s not on record. What don’t know what it is or what it’s capable of, aside from that it seems to be shutting down Draco’s systems, one by one.”

Narcissa looks up, her face ghostly pale. “What?” Her voice is shrill, “But that means he’s going to-”

“Mrs. Malfoy, it’s not as bad as it seems,” Hannah is quick to say, rushing toward the woman to place her hand on the side of her back unoccupied by her husband. Narcissa’s eyes turn toward Hannah, and the Healer continues, “we can fight the curse’s effects for now, but … we just can’t _cure_ him, yet. We have the resources to keep him alive, to the best of our ability.”

Nodding, Pansy adds, “consciousness is another issue … I have a few ideas, but it’s seeming like he’ll be comatose for a little bit. We’re going to work as diligently as we can to figure out what’s happened here.”

Harry’s face displays a number of strong emotions, and Pansy sighs, “I know … but we’re going to figure this out, okay? Whoever’s done this won’t get away with it.” Glancing toward Draco’s parents, Pansy shoots Hannah a gesture to try to get them out of the room for a little bit.

Hannah’s eyes widen, but she nods comprehensively. “Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy … you two are looking awfully pale. Why don’t you come with me, I’ll get you some water.”

“I’m not leaving.” Narcissa asserts stubbornly, “I’m not leaving his side, not for a moment.”

“Love,” Lucius murmurs, and his wife’s gaze casts up at him, “she’s right. You’re as white as a sheet of paper. A few minutes away won’t do any harm.”

Silence follows that, Narcissa’s face twisting indignantly, before she exhales deeply, signifying a surrender. “Okay.”

Smiling apologetically, Hannah gently takes the older woman’s shoulder. “This way.”

Watching the three file out of the room, Harry looks toward Pansy, Lucy still in his arms. “What was that about? I suppose you have something to tell me.”

“Knowing you, you’re not going to let anyone else take this case,” Pansy starts, and Harry’s eyes befall Draco. He knows she’s right. “You already have some ideas, don’t you?”

“It had to have happened last night,” says Harry, without a second’s hesitation, “and unless you remember anyone spontaneously cursing him before then, it had to be during the confrontation with Watergate. I think she did it.”

“Great theory,” Pansy starts, placing her hand on her hip, “but there’s one huge issue. We were all there. Watergate didn’t seem to curse him - she never pulled a wand and I don’t remember her so much as pointing at him. I want to believe it, but … when? When could she have done it? I think we all would have noticed something like that.”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, “that’s the only part that doesn’t add up. Everything else is there, even the motive … but I just can’t prove it.”

Pausing, Pansy licks her lips and looks toward the door to make sure the other three members of the party aren’t back yet. “What did Draco say to you, when you tried to wake him up?”

Harry looks at her with surprise, for he hadn’t expected this question. Nevertheless, he answers, “All he was able to choke out was that he was cursed. He originally didn’t think anything had happened, but he admitted he was wrong, and … he just said to bring him here. I think … all I could make out was ‘to St. Mungo’s’.”

“So even he didn’t know … not until it was in full effect.”

“No … but he got a massive headache and passed out, last night. Even after he came to, he insisted he was fine. So he had no idea until this morning.”

Averting her gaze, Pansy exhales heavily. Then, her eyes catch onto Lucy, tucked into Harry’s arms, and she purses her lips together. “Are you certain? Are you certain that it was Watergate?”

Solemnity saturating his green eyes, Harry nods his head soundly. “Yes.”

Hesitating, Pansy falters for just a moment - but her confidence returns to her, all at once. “There’s a way you can prove it. But you’ll have to call … Blaise.”

“Blaise …?” Harry stops, already knowing what the woman is hinting at. “Oh. Oh, yes … right. I will. As much as I hate to get him involved, this is serious enough.”

Pansy nods. “He loves Draco just as much as I do. He’ll want to do it, even if not outwardly. At this point, it’s our only hope of curing him.”

There’s a knock at the door, and through the thin rectangular window carved into the door, Pansy can see Hannah’s face. The dark-haired woman looks toward Harry once more, and taking a deep breath, the Auror nods.

“I’ll owl him for tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is a bit short!! if i were to continue it, it would have ran way too long. also, don't worry, i know ron didn't make an appearance this chapter but he will in the next!! 
> 
> thanks so much for reading xx


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